Against the Wall
by Zephyrius-Wynds
Summary: A series of One-Shots with the Vigilante and his favorite detective. Quiver! M-Rated! Oliver/Quentin Lance.


Quiver one-shots. Not Canon and make absolutely no sense. Just a fave pairing that didn't have enough smut!

* * *

With the way things were progressing in his life, one would think that Detective Quentin Lance had a _thing_ for being slammed into various inanimate objects by a certain, leather-clad vigilante. The grated metal of the warehouse bunker he was up against stung his cheek but it didn't stop him from spitting out every vile curse he knew in the book.

The Vigilante just chuckled. He just _fucking chuckled._ "You're following me," He said with the rasp that Detective Lance had come to know very well in his dreams. Except in his dreams the Vigilante was the one being pinned down and handcuffed while Lance was reading him his damned Miranda rights. Yeah right, might as well wish for a pony. "I am not your enemy."

"Like hell you aren't!" Quentin spat; his one hand was braced against the metal while the other one was being bent at an unnatural angle behind his back. "You're a killer, and I'm going to find out who you are and you're going to be in jail for a long, _long_ time."

"I'll take that as a challenge then." The Vigilante said after a moment of contemplation, then the pressure on his back was gone and when Lance managed to get his balance and turn around, there was nothing but empty space. He scowled, "Who the hell does he think he is, Batman?"

* * *

Two more rich assholes dead and there were enough arrows in the evidence room to build a house. Lance scowled as he knelt next to another hapless bodyguard. Clean shot, right to the heart and not another _speck_ of evidence. He surveyed the room, filled with police, photographers and various other personnel that were combing the place for clues amongst the bullet-ridden crates and walls. Christ, how did that bastard never even get a _scratch_ on him?

He stood up, gave his report to one of the officers and stepped outside for a moment of fresh air. In the darkness of the city, with only the lights of the distance windows to show him, he saw something on the floor, behind, in the alleyway. The lighted glinted off wood on the floor, _green wood._ He made for it like a madman, only to find himself being slammed face-first into stonewalls. The pressure on his back was annoying familiar.

"Don't bother calling for help," The Vigilante said, pressing an arm against Lance's neck. It was difficult to breathe. "Steven Guerrini, CEO of Guerinni-Oanza United took over 20 million dollars in bribes to have high grade weapons illegally shipped to Starling City for the Triad. He used the SCPD's own legal loopholes to keep himself off your lists and from having any of his shipments checked. " The weight on Lance's neck lifted a little and the Detective took a deep breath.

He coughed, "Why are you telling me this?" Usually the Vigilante dealt with things like this on his own, leaving Lance with all the damned paperwork and mess to clean up afterwards. He tried to flex his wrists; both pinned behind his back but the grip on them tightened to the point of pain. Jesus the guy was strong. If the Vigilante's head weren't so far away, Lance would have at least tried head-butting him.

"I've given him the chance to do the right thing," The Vigilante answered, "He's failed my city. Check the logs from 2003 to 2006 and enter _this_ code." He pressed something into the clenched fingers of Lance's hand and the detective unfurled his fingers to grasp what felt like a USB stick. "You'll have all the evidence you need to lock him up."

Lance raged against the iron grip on his back, "I don't need your help! I'm a cop, _I_ protect this city while you sneak in the shadows and _kill_ people!"

"I will do this, with or without your help. I am just giving you the chance to make it different." Cryptic words, blissful freedom from that painful grasp and Lance was alone in the alleyway again. When he arrested Steven Guerrini the following day, he swore on his mother's grave that he would die before admitting the Vigilante to being right.

Again.

* * *

It was two am in the morning and Detective Quentin Lance was getting to know the semi-shiny surface of his own police car a little better than he wanted to. His hands were pinned to the side and there was a leather-clothed vigilante practically sitting on his back. Maybe it was the fact that there had been a serial killer loose for over a week and it might have been the fact that Lance had been awake for over fifty-seven consecutive hours but he just couldn't find it in himself to fight back. "What?" He snapped, annoyed at the way the lights of the distant headlamps reflected off the hood, right into his damned eyes and the silhouette of the arrow embedded into his car reminded him of the stacks of paperwork he hadn't even put a _dent_ into. The gallons of coffee he had been downing at a break-neck speed were starting to wear off and he could feel the crash seeping into his body.

As much as he'd like to deny it, he wasn't young anymore. Trying to keep this ridiculous pace was wearing on him. All he wanted was to turn around and punch the damn Vigilante's lights out and drag him back to the precinct.

"You were driving drunk."

Lance sputtered against his car, "What? Are you out of your mind?!" He fought against the Vigilante with all the strength he had left in his tired body. "The hell do you think you are? My baby-sitter?!" He had had _enough_ of this! It had been a hell of a week, what with the fucking paparazzi and press on his ass about the serial killer and the promises he'd made to the people about catching the sick fuck. No sleep, too much paperwork and too many funerals to attended. Too many letters and condolences to send…all he'd wanted was a drink; a drink and some peace of mind. The pressure on his back increased and he was soon almost completely immobile against his car.

The Vigilante's voice was close to his ear this time, "Calm down." When Lance didn't, he felt the pull press of the Vigilante's body against his back and it took him almost ten seconds to realize the shocked, needy moan had come out of _his _mouth. Suddenly, he was alone, bent over his car and gaping like a fish at the arrow in his car.

Slowly, he picked himself up, sat down in his car and stayed that way for a long time.

* * *

Detective Quentin Lance downed his fifth-no- sixth coffee in the last two hours. His head was buzzing from all the caffeine and he was starting to feel a little sick but he drank it anyway, signing his name on one of the million papers stacked on his desk. It was way, way, past closing and he was still in his office, trying anything, everything to keep himself from having a single moment to think….or sleep.

The last few nights had him waking up at god knows what hour with his forehead covered in sweat and an erection between his legs he was desperately trying not to remember the cause of.

He downed the rest of his coffee with speed he didn't know he possessed when suddenly the lights went out.

Lance jerked in his seat, made to get up but there were two hands on his shoulders pushing him down and almost instantly, he was cuffed –his _own_ cuffs damnit- and at the mercy of the one man he did not want to see. "What the hell do you think you're doing coming-" He was going to say something horrible and scathing, but the sight of a gloved hand trailing down his chest shocked him into silence. There was the faint smell of sandalwood in the air and he knew that the Vigilante's bow was ready to draw and he kept still, his mind working in a hundred thousand different directions as to why this was happening. He was _clearly_ not asleep and there was no reason to-

In the pitch blackness, the Vigilante's hand was at his fly, tugging at the buttons and pulling the ends down. Lance was torn between terror and arousal, his mind and mouth shocked into complete silence. His body however, was not as quiet as he's wished it were because his erection was saying everything he didn't need to and the Vigilante _knew_ it.

The Vigilante wasted no time and leather –too soft to be anything but a custom job- surrounded him, squeezing lightly and drawing a shocked moan out of Lance's unwilling throat. It worked overtime, pulling down and up, with varying pressure and there wasn't a thing Lance could do to stop it. His own mouth betrayed him, opening to let out a litany of needy little whimpers punctuated by his hips thrusting upwards into the Vigilante's grasp.

_I hate you,_ he thought, _I __**hate**__ you._ And somehow that fueled his arousal. He tried to wrench away but the Vigilante's other hand was tight over his cuffed wrists while he worked Quentin Lance's body in a way he hadn't felt in years. Lance watched his own damn legs spread wider for balance and heard his own reedy voice, keening high in a wail that signaled the oncoming orgasm. It was barreling at him so fast he couldn't even brace himself and when the Vigilante's hand roughly twisted upwards and Lance heard that rasping breath over the shell of his ear, he couldn't even begin to hold back the pathetic,_ loud_ cry as he spurted all over the Vigilante's green, leather-clad fist.

When he woke up, his pants were intact and not a single light was off. His handcuffs were back in the same spot on his desk and there were still a million papers piled in front of him. He sighed in relief, it was just a dream. A fucked up dream that had everything to do with all the stress and pressure that was on his shoulders and nothing about reality.

But when he brought up his hands to continue his paper work, there were the unmistakable red marks of metal that had bitten his skin. He stared for a few moments before getting up and filling his cup to the brim with coffee.

The strongest he could make.

* * *

The second time was against a wall, where he had followed the trail of arrows to the elevators. He had stepped in when –predictably- the lights went out, he was against a wall and he heard the distinct click of a button. The elevator stopped moving and that gloved hand was on his stomach and Lance wanted to scream and maybe vomit because he could feel the warmth pooling in his abdomen and he was hard in no time flat, throbbing in his pants like a hormonal teenager.

The Vigilante growled against his ear, one hand apparently strong enough to hold both of Lance's in a tight grip.

"You sick fuck." Lance started, ignoring the hand that undone the buttons of his trousers, "Why are you doing this?!" He got no answer except the familiar grating sound of the Vigilante's breath against his neck and that made him shiver. It made his stomach do little flips because the Vigilante's hand was wrapping around him and stroking to a rhythm that was better than anything Lance had ever done to himself. This time though, there was the added pressure of the Vigilante's body against his back and it was frustratingly warm. Despite his own verbal protests, he keened, wordlessly begging for more when there was a pause in movement. Unconsciously, he rocked back and forth, desperate for that hand to move and then he felt it.

The Vigilante was -Lance swallowed his mingled disgust and arousal- hard against him but that knowledge, no matter how sickening didn't stop him from thrusting back against the heat of the body behind him.

"Fuck," He pressed his forehead to the cool walls, and that hand was still on him. "Fuck-"Lance bit his lip so hard it stung for days afterwards. The Vigilante's hand was moving fast and hard against him; the dual sensation of hard heat from behind and soft, urgent leather in front brought Lance over the edge so fast his vision swam. In the distance, he heard the Vigilante growl softly before disappearing just as silently and swiftly as he had come.

Lance braced himself against the thankfully dark elevator, only now realizing what had happened. He felt sick and he was desperately glad he couldn't see anything because his mind was replaying it to him in high definition. He felt around in his pockets for a napkin he had picked up a few hours ago at a donut shop and silently wiped away the evidence before forcing the doors open to slip out.

When his fellow policemen asked where he'd gone, he'd just answered, "Followed a lead." And when asked again, he elaborated, "Dead end."

* * *

He was hard. Detective Quentin Lance was walking away from the SCPD headquarters with a hard-on that could rival any teenager's. Walking briskly and silently as he could, Lance made his way to his car, trying not to think of the Vigilante, of the leather gloves, of _anything_. He had worked past closing hours; _again_ in hopes of keeping the dreams and disgusting images at bay and for a time, it worked. But any free moment he had, his mind wandered to dangerous places.

He had just reached his car and was fishing for the keys in his pocket when the backdoor opened and he was being unceremoniously pulled into and _on top of_ the armored body of the Vigilante.

No. No, he'd had enough. This was _fucking insane._ "You sick son of a bitch!" He growled, fighting in the small, cramped space of his car. For the first time, he had a little leverage and erection or not, he was going to fight tooth and nail and pin the bastard down before dragging him into a cell where he could _rot_ for the rest of his life. For a moment, he had the upper hand –well, higher ground- but the Vigilante was surprisingly effective in the small quarters of the backseat and hooked his legs under Lance's and pulled his thighs apart. Lance's elbow caught him in the rib but the Vigilante was like a Kevlar mattress and he realized he was at a disadvantage.

He heard the Vigilante's breath, ragged and gasping over his ear and Lance realized the fight only turned him on. He really was one sick fuck, but what did that make him, sitting on the fucking Vigilante's lap like a kid on Santa's lap? He was ridiculously hard; so hard that when the Vigilante's hand brushed over his lap, Lance bucked into it like a virgin and when his pants were undone and a _second_ hand was gripping his balls he couldn't even will himself to fight, having been hard and frustrated since god knows when.

All he could do was buck up and cry out when the Vigilante began to stroke. "Ah, fuck-" Lance gasped, hands coming up –to fight him off- to grasp the Vigilante's arms "Fuck, oh god. You bastard, you fucking bastard-" He was going to come. Lance was going to come hard, so fast that all he could do was throw his head back against the Vigilante's neck and howl in the tiny confines of his car. When the Vigilante stopped just short of Lance's completion, the detective swore loudly, nails biting into the armored jacket. But before he could voice either a protest or a plea, he was thrown forward, leaning against the back of the front seats of his personal car, bent over enough that he could acutely feel how hard his assailant was.

Floundering for a moment, unsure of whether to fight back or to grip the seats and wait, the decision was taking out of his hands when the Vigilante pointedly thrust upwards to grind against him, one hand on Lance's hip and the other roughly continuing its former, brutal rhythm. There were rasping breaths and pained grunts coming from behind Lance, the first real sound the Vigilante had made since their first…'encounter' and the Detective could barely swallow his own cry when the Vigilante suddenly changed position again, the hand that was on Lance's hip coming to grab his throat from the front, pulling him back and flush against a leather body.

There was no way that Lance could have even attempted to be silent at that point, "Fuck!" He thrust into the Vigilante's hand, unable to ignore how good the bastard felt from either side "Fuck you, oh-oh god, oh god fuck, you -don't, stop." He was so close and when the Vigilante used his powerful thighs to spread Lance's legs as far as they would go, the Detective tumbled into oblivion so hard he saw dancing spots of light in the darkness. He hadn't even recovered when after one more thrust, the Vigilante _bit_ into his shoulder with a muffled grunt, going stiff against him for a single moment.

Lance didn't have the strength to chase after him when the Vigilante opened the car and stepped out to disappear into the darkness.

* * *

Detective Lance was nursing the biggest headache he'd had since Laurel had admitted to letting the Vigilante _into_ her house. He was thumbing the phone he'd gotten weeks ago and Christmas was already long gone. As if he'd needed another thing to remind him of the Vigilante. For all he knew, the bastard had a tracking device and microphone inside. But that wasn't really the problem.

The problem was –Christ, Jesus Christ- that he'd had _sex_. With a perp. Not just _a_ perp.

_THE_ perp.; a man he vowed to bring to justice.

It had been weeks since the car episode and somehow Lance had just…conveniently not though about the previous encounters. It was the first time the Vigilante had participated. When he'd come to after a few minutes, Lance realized what had happened and he was sure that the migraine he was feeling now started then. This was insane. _He _was insane. What the hell was wrong with him? Surely his wife's departure didn't leave him so stunted that nothing less than a hooded madman with soft leather gloves could get him off? Christ.

It didn't help that his own body was the number one traitor in all of this either. A few days ago, one of officers clapped a leather-gloved hand on his shoulder and he was hard in record time.

Christ what was he going to do? It wasn't as if Lance could just stroll up to his buddies and say, "Hey, listen; the Vigilante gets me off every once in a while. So just wait in the shadows and club him over a head when he does, ok?" Dreams at night kept him awake and only herculean willpower kept Lance from succumbing to base desires. Working during the day was a hell in and of itself, as he'd had to deal with the Vigilante taking down more influential members of society; all of who were guilty of some crime that the Police were unaware of.

Detective Quentin Lance literally felt helpless. Supposedly helping the city but being unable to do squat. However, he refused to concede to the idea that what the Hood was doing was _justice_. It was murder, plain and simple.

Later that night, he was in his own apartment, still rubbing his temples and settling down for the night when there was sudden darkness and the distinct glint of a bow from the corner of his eye. Lance scrambled for the gun he held in his drawer but he wasn't fast enough and the full press of the Vigilante's body held him fast to his mattress. His heart thudded painfully against his chest, his twitching hand held down by the Hood. "What the hell are you doing in my house?" Lance growled, almost blind with rage. He fought back as hard as he could, kicking the covers up and somehow; the indignity of the break in gave him strength.

He threw off the Vigilante and swiftly spun around to catch the bastard in the jaw, gratified at the sound of his fist smacking against the hood's jaw. The Hood dodged his second punch and caught Lance in the side with one of his own and the Detective felt his ribs creak ominously. Tossing his bedside lamp without a second thought, it exploded in a shower of sparks and glass against the wall. Using the surprise, Lance forced his body forward and collided against his assailant in a shower of fists but his upper hand didn't last long and despite his best efforts, he was forced down on his knees over the bed.

However, if the Vigilante though he was _done_ then he was so very, _very_ wrong. "You bastard," Lance seethed against his blankets, knees smarting against the floor, "How _dare _you-" His pajamas were pulled unceremoniously down his legs and he felt his entire body seize in sudden terror.

The Vigilante covered him like an armored blanket, teeth glinting in the darkness and hardness pressing against Lance's backside with an insistence the detective could not ignore. His own body began to respond and Lance cursed himself for it. The Vigilante bit down on his shoulder -Lance's pajama top torn and thrown somewhere in the room- and the Detective muffled his groan against his bed. There was a questing hand against the backs of his thighs and it trailed higher, groping and squeezing the muscle he found there. Putting a knee down between Lance's legs and onto the pajamas the Vigilante pulled down, he was effectively trapped, unable to move and unsure whether he wanted to.

The Detective couldn't hold back a startled gasp when a warm tongue found the back of his neck, followed by teeth that bit at every sensitive spot he had. It trailed down to his spine, nipping the skin along the way. The Vigilante's hand was still on his thighs but it moved higher and trailed soft, leather fingers towards his balls and cock, stroking the underside of both, making Lance quail against his bed.

Christ, why couldn't he fight? His entire body was unwilling to move and even when the Vigilante's hand trailed to dangerous place, Lance couldn't protest. Suddenly, there was something cool against him and even in his aroused state, Lance tensed against the intrusion, mouth working overtime, "This is-stop. You have to stop!" His pleas were useless when his own body was hanging on a thin thread and the Vigilante apparently knew it, leaning forward lick a stripe up Lance's sensitive neck. He nipped the Detective's ear, drawing a gasp and used that moment of distraction to press in with one, buttery-leather finger.

There was pain and a sensation that Lance was extremely uncomfortable with but it only lasted a few seconds because he was reduced to pathetic cries and howls when the Vigilante hit _something_. There was a second finger and they pistoned in and out with fluid grace, completely uncaring of the way Lance's legs trembled and his cock throbbed against him. Every inward stroke hit that spot and made Lance rediscover how far back he could really arch. There were the remnants of pain but Lance couldn't even being to concentrate on them because he was too busy muffling his cries against his own sheets.

When those fingers pulled out, Lance would never believe the sound of protest that came out of his own mouth. He hadn't even realized that he was trying to spread his legs wider until that very moment and despite years of training and months of hatred and frustration, he almost begged for relief. "Stop-"

There was the sound of something being ripped.

He tried again, failing brilliantly when he moaned at the loss of fingers; his cock was taut against his stomach and he was sure that a single touch would be enough to get him off now but what he didn't expect was the feel of something bigger….blunt…against him. His heart almost stopped and he tried to get his throat to work but the press of it inside was painful and the moan that the Vigilante let out silenced him instantly.

For a few moments Lance lay there on his knees, face against his bed with his wrists held down and the Vigilante's cock inside him. Then the Vigilante was moving, slowly at first and picking up pace. Soon, Quentin Lance was letting out a series of yelps that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the burning pleasure that was seeping down his spine to pool at the base of his cock. Somehow, the Vigilante knew and he rolled his hips, striking the spot his fingers had with greater accuracy and pressure.

It had Lance's vision whiting out at the corners.

The hand that had been holding down his wrists let go and the Vigilante was pressing his clothed chest against Lance's back, grasping his hips and _pounding _the detective into a new shape, hitting that spot with every thrust. For his part, Lance's brain had all but dribbled out of his ears and all he could do was grasp his sheets and yell.

"Fuck- please. Please, oh god." When the pressure increased and the force of the thrusts had him holding on for support, Lance tried to bring down his hand- something, _anything_ to keep him from _losing his mind_. But his hand was batted away and the Vigilante growled against him, mouth coming down to press against Lance's neck. "Damn it- oh, oh. Fu-god, please," He spread his legs, unable to control his body any longer against the onslaught of sensation.

Heat, sweat and the burning sensation of sex was almost enough but when the Vigilante brought his gloved hand to press against his stomach, Lance begged, "Please, let me-_please_, ah, ah, god-I. Close, _please_." There was a low, dark snarl and that hand wrapped around him, coupling a brutal thrust that pressed against that _spot_ along with a vicious stroke that made Lance sob as his entire body seized up and his vision blacked out.

He woke up in the morning, utterly naked and –what the fuck- tucked in his bed like some child. There were ripped sheets and the wall had been burnt where he'd thrown the lamp but otherwise, there wasn't even a trace of the Vigilante. Detective Lance was sore and all his muscles ached in ways they hadn't for years. He looked at his alarm clock; 12:30 pm and decided that_ fuck it_, he was due a sick day.

He'd deal with all this shit tomorrow.

END


End file.
